Chapter Text
A young boy sits in a man’s lap--a man 15 years his senior. The young boy has beautiful dimples and shaggy brown hair that almost reaches his collar before it begins to curl. He’s thin, with long fingers and a smile that could make angels sing.
The man is sweating. His hands lay tentatively on the boy’s thighs. He is 30 years old, and he knows how dangerous this is.
“You’re going to get me into a lot of trouble, Arthur.”
Lips stretch into a wry smile as fingers find the edges of a band t-shirt, latching on and pulling the thing over a brunette head. Only his hemp necklace remains above the waist. He’s beautiful, so very beautiful, with muscle just starting to show, shoulders still slightly rounded. He is not quite a man yet, no longer a child. But he’s a child compared to the man whose lap he sits in now, and that makes it all the more thrilling.
“I won’t tell if you don’t,” the boy whispers, finally leaning forward to press their mouths together.
He is 15, and he knows what he wants. What he wants is Eames. And like most stubborn youth, he won’t take no for an answer.
+++++
Arthur and Ariadne had been neighbors since they were small children, the two of them playing in the backyard making mud pies while their parents smoked cigarettes and drank wine in the house. They were in diapers together, they shared their toys and their secrets, they shared their first kiss together, they went through puberty together, and had most of their classes together when they got to high school. They knew almost everything about each other. Arthur knew that Ariadne blew the blind kid two houses down from them when she was 13, and Ariadne knew that Arthur was gay. Arthur knew that Ariadne had been stealing her mother’s cigarettes for months now, and Ariadne knew that Arthur bought sports magazines just to jerk off to pictures of the beefy men with glistening, oiled skin.
What Ariadne did not know about Arthur, was that he had been madly in love with her uncle since they were about 10 years old.
Ariadne’s uncle was an Englishman who stayed with them most of the time, living in the guest room as a mooch and showing off his sleights of hand to the children, grinning with those plush pink lips of his whenever he was able to garner a laugh or a gasp from his simple card and coin tricks. Eames was his name, and he was the brother of Ariadne’s father from another mother. He was devilishly handsome, always had Arthur in stitches, and he was bisexual, a fact that Arthur hung onto quite closely over the years as Eames brought home both men and women, much to Ariadne’s parents’ disapproval. He’d paw at them in front of the children until he was swatted with a newspaper by Ariadne’s father and shooed out of the house.
Arthur had never seen a bisexual man, and seeing Eames kiss other men so passionately before turning around a week later and doing the same with a woman made the boy’s heart ache with both envy and wonder. Eames was 25, young and brash and indecisive with life. He wasn’t a role model, rather a bit of a rebel with a heart of gold. Arthur was smitten, infatuated, obsessed. He idolized Eames. Ariadne wasn’t quite as enthusiastic, chalking it down to Arthur being weird and fatherless and wanting someone to look up to. She was partly right.
+++++
At the age of 10, Arthur was sleeping over with Ariadne, when in the middle of the night he awoke with the seat of his pants and the sheet under him soaked in urine. He’d had an accident while asleep and, scared out of his mind that Ariadne would find out and make fun of him, he’d snatched up all the sheets and ran to the bathroom downstairs in a hurry to try and wash the soiled sheets (and himself). He’d forgotten to lock the door, just closed it and dashed to the wash tub to begin running water, shoving the sheets under the spray and praying it didn’t stain an ugly yellow, informing everyone who ever used them afterwards of what he’d done.
He hadn’t wet the sheets in years. Why now??
“Is everything alright?” a sleepy voice asked from the doorway, and Arthur just barely concealed a screech as he all but fell into the tub along with the sheets.
“No! I mean—Yes, I just…” the boy began to babble, face aflame with embarrassment. It was Eames, in his boxer shorts with hair rumpled and eyes squinted from the glaring light. Arthur was mortified, looking away as Eames’ gaze tilted downwards to see the mess Arthur had made of his sleeping pants, soaked through down to the knees. “I, um. I can take care of it. Please just don’t—don’t tell anyone?”
A smile filled not with pity so much as kindness graced Eames’ lips. “Stay here Arthur, I’ll be right back,” he ordered softly and then left, the room so much dimmer without the man’s presence brightening it.
Arthur fought tears back, and failed eventually as they spilled passed his eyes, matting his eyelashes, his shoulders rounding in submission and shame. He’d embarrassed himself in front of Eames, the man he respected and looked up to, idolized. He scrubbed furiously at the wet sheets with soap and water, his hands burning from the heat, and a moment later the door pushed open again.
Eames approached with a pair of shorts, old and faded and cut off from a pair of sweat pants. “Not the prettiest pair of trousers, but they’re too small for me. A bit big on you still, no doubt, but they’ll have to do, Darling. Here, put them on and give me yours. And turn that off,” he nodded at the running water, and Arthur obeyed immediately.
While Arthur had removed his soiled clothing, wiped himself off with a wet washcloth, and put on the new shorts, Eames bundled up the wet sheets and left the room. Eames hadn’t mentioned the tears in Arthur’s eyes, and Arthur was feeling about a million times better about the whole thing because of it. In the distant quiet of the house, Arthur could hear the faint sound of a washing machine starting up, and he blushed hotly. Eames, the handsome uncle of his best friend, was going out of his way to help Arthur. It made his heart beat a little faster just thinking about it.
Wandering off towards the back of the house where the washing room was, Arthur saw Eames clearing out the clothes in the dryer to prepare for the sheets when they were done washing. He smiled at Arthur when the boy approached. Arthur had to hold the shorts up with one hand to keep them from falling straight down to his ankles, and Eames grinned at that. “Brilliant. These’ll be done in about an hour and a half, if you’d like to sleep on the couch or something until then.”
Arthur smiled back, body pressed to the doorjamb and fingers playing at the light switch, picking at it but not flipping it. “I’ll uh… I can do that, yeah. Thank you.”
Nodding, Eames went back to folding the clothes. The sound of the water filling up the machine stopped, only to be replaced with the mechanical whirr of gears switching around, the clunky machine beginning its first cleaning cycle. “Not a problem. I’ll wake you up when they’re done.”
“You’re not going back to sleep?” Arthur asked, a little surprised. Eames looked harried and ready to fall asleep standing up.
Shrugging with absolute nonchalance, Eames gave him a crooked smile, displaying his equally crooked British teeth that fascinated Arthur. “Well I’m up now, aren’t I? Don’t worry about it, I’m usually up half the night anyway, Pet.”
Nodding shyly, Arthur watched Eames fold the last of the clothes before finally deciding to slink off to the living room and make himself comfortable on the couch. He buried his face in a pillow and tried not to think about how embarrassing wetting the bed at 10 years old was, how embarrassing it was to get caught trying to clean up after himself, how embarrassing it was for such a cool guy like Eames to see him with pajama pants soaked in piss.
He eventually fell back into a light sleep.
A hand on his shoulder woke him up some time later, faint blue light just beginning to stream in through the windows. The distant sound of birds tweeting outside the windows filtered in through his waning dreams. He groaned and looked up, finding Eames standing over him with freshly dried blankets and a friendly smile. “Here we are Arthur, nice and warm. If you hurry up, no one’ll even notice you were gone,” he said quietly, winking.
Scrambling to sit up, Arthur took the sheets with a brand new blush tinting his cheeks. “Thanks! Um, for the sheets. And the clothes. And the shorts… And for uh… For not laughing at me,” he mumbled, face so downcast it was almost buried in the nice warm blankets he held.
Snorting, Eames clapped him on the shoulder. “Laughing at you? Darling, you want to know when the last time was that I wet my knickers? Last week. I was so knackered I barely made it to bed. Woke up in a river, I swear,” he drawled, an almost fond look on his face as if the memory were a positive one.
Arthur stared, mouth open, and Eames laughed.
“Don’t worry about it. Run along now, before Ariadne comes in, wondering where you’ve gone.”
Arthur nodded and scampered off, holding the sheets with one arm and his waistband with the other, quietly creeping back up the stairs and into the guest room bed. He didn’t sleep for a while after that, the warmth of the sheets and the fresh memory of Eames’ kind face making him wonder if one day he’d ever be that cool.
+++
Arthur’s favorite time of the year was the summer, if only because Eames was there, just next door, 95% of the time. He’d bask on the back porch in swimming trunks, reading a book with his aviator sunglasses in place, looking like some sort of British model out of a magazine. Gaudy tattoos decorated Eames’ body, covering his barrel chest and twisting over his impossibly large arms. Arthur had found himself needing to run home quite a few times to be alone in his room, jerking off furiously with the image of a half-naked and sweat-soaked Eames mowing the lawn or pulling weeds.
The biggest reason Arthur refused to let Ariadne know about his obsession with Eames was that the man was a whopping 15 years older than him. At first he’d thought that his feelings for Eames were more akin to wanting a father figure in his life since Arthur’s own father was chronically absent due to work, he and his mother left alone in a big house with a pool and a fenced in backyard, enjoying the constant flow of money from their father who’d rather work 100 hours a week than be at home with his family.
This idea of him just idolizing Eames as one would a father dissipated when Arthur was 12 and came home early from school to find Eames with his face between his mother’s thighs on the couch. All three of them had shocked each other, a shriek emitting from his mother’s mouth and his own caught tight in his throat, and Eames had immediately sprang from his position kneeling on the floor to dart at Arthur, grabbing him gently by the shoulder and giving him the most apologetic, pleading look Arthur had ever seen on the man’s face.
“Arthur,” he’d said, and Arthur stared at that mouth, at those lips that were wet with something other than saliva, “Darling, please don’t be angry with me.”
Arthur had stared at Eames’ lips as he spoke, had known words were coming from that mouth, but all he could hear was the blood rushing in his hears, all he could feel was the blush rushing to his own belly, a sick arousal at what he’d just seen making his brain grind to a halt. The knowledge and the smell that permeated the space between them, solidifying the act as something that really did happen, it was all so much and all Arthur could do was stare dumbly.
Eames didn’t want Arthur to rat him out. A quick look at his mother and Arthur could see that she didn’t want to be told on either, her face pleading and ashamed, tears at the corners of her eyes from embarrassment.
He wouldn’t tell. Ever. And he said so, the words a mumble from his lips as he pulled out of Eames’ grip and ran up the stairs to his room, slamming the door behind him.
No, what he felt for Eames wasn’t familial at all. He’d wanted Eames for himself, and seeing the man with his mother had made Arthur so fiercely jealous, he’d instead began to hate his mother with a ferocious vehemence reserved only for the competition of a potential lover’s feelings. In this case, Eames’ feelings. Arthur knew his mother didn’t know that her son had any sort of feelings for Eames, but she’d also never shown any interest in the man other than mild flirtation. The tryst had been unprecedented to say the least.
Arthur never walked in on his mother and Eames again, and had confidently suspected that they’d completely broken off whatever they’d had going on for fear of being found out. All the better, Arthur thought selfishly, the new secret inside him swelling like a black shard of ice every time he saw his mother. She had a husband. She’d had the love and affection of Arthur’s father, something he hadn’t had since he was too young to remember, and now she was trying to take the love and affection of the only other man Arthur wanted in his life as well.
The end of whatever it is his mother and Eames had going on (clearly a fling restricted to the heat of a moment) meant less competition for Arthur. The endless girlfriends and boyfriends the man brought home were a joke as it was. They never stayed more than two weeks, and Arthur never bothered learning their names. Eames had jokingly mentioned one night in passing that he hadn’t either. They were nothing serious to Eames, only friends with benefits that quickly lost Eames’ interest once they’d filled the void.
Arthur liked to relish in the idea that he was different. He had no serious aspirations, and at only 13 he wasn’t going to kid himself—he could be nothing more than the friendly neighbor boy to Eames. He’d barely hit puberty and although he’d begun to think about sex almost constantly, he knew better than to think someone likes Eames would make time for a child like himself.
He was happy with his position though. He was happy with the smiles Eames gave him, the pats on the shoulder, and even the dreaded noogies that left his head smarting and his ego bruised for all of two minutes. After all, he was getting more than any of those week-long flings ever received.
After the day Arthur discovered Eames and his mother together, things were a little awkward, but Arthur held up his end of the bargain. He’d wanted to be a little mad at Eames, after all he was only 13 and probably scarred for life after seeing something like that. But he couldn’t stay mad. Not at Eames. Not with those sheepish crooked smiles and the charming way Eames still thought that pulling a coin from Ariadne’s ear was an impressive trick.
Eames had been rather pleased to see that Arthur was still good-natured towards him after the incident with his mom, and even thanked him again one evening over a trip to the local ice cream stand.
This was something Arthur loved, the subtle change in Eames. He didn’t know if it was because of his reliability in keeping secrets or something else entirely, but Arthur found that Eames had begun to act more friendly towards him, even going so far as taking the boy out for lunch, or trips to the mall on occasion. Arthur ate this behavior up with fervor, loving the attention Eames lavished on him.
Ariadne hadn’t even cared. She had a new boyfriend and was spending most of the time with him anyway. And when school started back up, Arthur’s last year of middle school, he made sure to always get his homework done as soon as possible so that he could go to Ariadne’s and have a chance at seeing Eames. Most of the colder months had Eames working odd jobs though, mostly in the evenings, much to Arthur’s dismay. Although there were some nights where he’d be up late, playing games by himself or reading, where he’d look out the window and see Eames coming home from a late shift at work.
Arthur loved those nights, where the last thing he’d see before bed was Eames, even if only at a glance.
He really was pathetic.
+++++
The summer before Arthur’s freshman year, he was 13 and basking lazily in the sunshine of his backyard by the pool when Ariadne came over with her current boyfriend, Eames trailing along behind as they poured through the gate separating Arthur’s backyard from Ariadne’s. He’d been startled out of his doze, sitting up quickly and pushing his sunglasses up into his hair.
“Arthur! You don’t care that I brought Gavin over, do you?” the young girl asked, and Gavin, the tall freckled red head behind her smiled shyly. “Mom and Dad said he could come over as long as Eames was chaperone. And as long as you said yes.”
A look past them both had Eames staring right at Arthur, and as soon as their eyes connected, Eames gave a friendly smile and looked away.
Arthur swallowed. Eames was in a threadbare tank top and swimming trunks with flip flops. He looked almost bored. Definitely annoyed at having to be brought along to watch a couple of kids. “Yeah, no, that’s—Why not? I don’t mind,” Arthur offered, laughing a little abruptly.
Ariadne beamed, strolling over to sit near the edge of the pool with Arthur. Gavin followed. Eames went to the nearby lawn chair and reclined back, glancing over at the magazine sitting on the table beside him and picking it up to flip through it with mild interest. Arthur’s heart ached.
“You kids behave now, no snogging in the pool, a’right?” Eames smirked, eyes not even lifting from the pages of the sun-bleached fashion magazine.
Pursing her lips, Ariadne looked at Gavin and rolled her eyes. “Come on Gav, let’s see if we can get you doing something other than doggy paddling.”
Arthur watched as Ariadne laughed and jumped into the pool, Gavin jumping in after and quipping about how he knows how to swim better than she thinks, and Arthur just sort of stared as the two splashed around and made the most of the warm day. He wasn’t feeling quite as playful, instead opting to run inside for a drink. He grabbed a Capri Sun for himself and a bottle of beer for Eames before heading back out and making a beeline for the lawn chair beside Eames’.
“Thirsty?” he asked casually, holding the bottle of Sam Adams out for the older man to take.
A knowing grin quirked Eames’ lips to the side and he reached for it, sitting up a little further in his chair to drink. “Buttering me up, Darling? I must tell you, I have no money. Gesture’s appreciated though, even if it is watered down American piss,” Eames teased, bringing the bottle to his mouth and taking a long pull. He sighed then, looking out at the pool where Ariadne and Gavin were playing Marco Polo. When the silence became a little too much, Eames broke it with, “So, high school now, eh? You’re growing up quick. Where’s the time go these days? Are you excited?”
Small talk. It was better than nothing. Arthur enjoyed the sound of Eames’ voice too much to care what the subject matter was, he just wanted to listen to that deep British accent all day long. “Yeah, I guess so,” Arthur replied noncommittally. “Just four more years and then college, right? More school. Sounds soooo fun,” he drawled, sipping at his juice with a small smile at the corner of his mouth. Eames snorted and Arthur sighed, continuing. “I suppose I’m excited. I don’t mind school, it just gets tedious after a while.”
“Tedious!” Eames echoed, arching an eyebrow. “Big word for a boy like you.”
Arthur scowled and flipped Eames off, sending the man into a fit of laughter.
“Oh, you are such the delinquent, Arthur. I might have to tell your mum about this behavior. Maybe I’ll get lucky and she’ll let me spank you myself. Haven’t you ever heard that you should respect your elders?” Eames asked, turned in his seat now to face the young boy.
It took all of his might not to conjure and keep the image of Eames spanking him out of his mind’s eye, and instead he barreled on. “You’re 27, that’s not an elder! Although you are looking a little old. Is that grey hair I see?”
Mouth gaping in a mockery of shock, Eames crowed with a hand on his chest dramatically, “You wound me! I know someone who’s getting coal in their stocking for Christmas. Their name starts with ‘Ar’ and ends in ‘thur’. Little git.”
Arthur snorted. “Christmas isn’t for half a year, you can’t threaten me with that. I’m 13 now anyway, that might have affected me when I was like 8, but not now. You’ll have to do better than that.”
“Hmph,” was the reply Arthur got, Eames bringing the bottle to his mouth again. He licked his lips and turned his gaze back towards the pool. “13. Almost a man. Forgive me, I’ll have to watch my tongue from now on.”
There was a bit of an awkward silence after that, and before Arthur could say anything in return, Ariadne called from the pool, “Arthur! Come get in, the water is nice and chilly! Feels great!”
Looking hesitantly from Eames to the pool, Arthur visibly recoiled. “Nah, I’m good where I am. I might get in later.”
“Arthurrrrr!” she whined, giving her best pout.
“No, let me finish my Capri Sun!” the boy bellowed back, and then squawked as Eames stood beside him and bent, picking Arthur up bridal style. “What the hell! What are you—Oh no, no, Eames don’t! DON’T!”
The grin on Eames’ face was pure evil as he carried Arthur to the edge of the pool and threw the boy in, packet of juice and flip flops and all.
“Eames!” Arthur screeched when he righted himself. Swiping water out of his eyes, his face was flushed beet red as he yelled an indignant, “Asshole!”
Laughter was all he got in return, and then Eames was taking off his tank top and shoes, jumping into the water as well.
They all played like that for a few hours, Eames dunking Arthur, and Arthur and Gavin taking turns dunking Ariadne. Eames taught Arthur a proper breaststroke, and Ariadne and Gavin eventually took off back towards the house when the sun became too much. Eames was a dark red at this point, looking towards the gate and visibly trying to decide whether to leave or not. Arthur frowned.
“Stay for dinner? Mom’s making roast beef,” Arthur offered, lounging with his arms on the side of the pool, body still in the water. His hair fell in wet locks over his face, water dripping from his nose and chin. He wondered if he looked as handsome as Eames did when dripping wet, and then smirked to himself when he realized what a dumb thought that was. Of course I don’t.
Eames smiled and climbed out of the pool. “Roast Beef? Mmm. You know my own mum always told me never to turn down a free meal,” he said, reaching for the towel he’d brought and pressing it to his face. The man looked back at Arthur, an expectant look on the boy’s face. He nodded. “Yeah, sure. Let me go take a shower and put some clothes on, then I’ll be over in a bit. Want me to invite Ariadne?”
NO! was what Arthur almost shouted, his lips parting and brows twitching. “If you want,” he said instead, his voice quieter. Was he being pathetic? He probably was. Crap.
A thoughtful look passed Eames’ face. “Just you and me and your mum then?”
Arthur felt his ears start burning. He nodded, a shy smile curling his lips.
Eames smirked. “Alright, alright. Why don’t you get out of the pool then and go get tidied up. Help your mum set the table and all that. I’ll be over in a tick.”
Grinning, Arthur nodded. Maybe he wasn’t so pathetic after all.
------
As fate would have it, Arthur’s mom was called out before dinner was done. Almost as soon as Eames walked in the door, she received a call from her friend saying that she needed a ride the hospital. Her daughter had apparently cut her finger almost clean off, and her husband had taken the car to work for the day.
In a rush, Arthur’s mom had grabbed her purse and ordered Arthur to turn the heat down on the roast, make sure the quiche didn’t burn, and just stay there until she got back.
So Arthur and Eames were left there alone and in the kitchen, the silence stretching between them awkwardly once more. Arthur turned to the stove and scrutinized the food. “Did she say to turn the heat off or to turn it down?” he asked, mostly to himself.
Laughing lightly, Eames rolled the sleeves of his button down up to his elbows and went to stand beside Arthur at the stove. “Looks like it’s you and me tonight then, Pet,” the man declared, surveying the contents of the stove before bending to peek in at the oven. With a satisfied nod, Eames gave Arthur an exasperated look. “Good thing you just begged me to come over, or you would have starved tonight. I should get a medal for this. Do they give medals for babysitting? Hey!” Eames laughed when Arthur punched in him the arm. “Kidding! Christ I’m not your punching bag Arthur, you little shit.”
And so they ate together that night. Eames hated eating at the table, and Arthur’s mother had called to say she’d be out a few more hours, so they ate on the couch, curled up and watching an R rated movie Arthur’s mother would never have let him seen. Full of roast and quiche, Arthur felt comfortable and warm, Eames’ presence at his side making him wonder if life could get any better.
When the gratuitous sex scene came on, followed by the inevitable murder of the couple rutting against each other like animals, Eames snorted. “She’s definitely a screamer now, isn’t she?” he asked as the woman’s head flew across the screen, the echo of her wail cut off and overlapped by her lover’s. Eames looked over at Arthur and wrapped an arm around the boy’s shoulders, sliding a hand over Arthur’s eyes. His voice was stern as he spoke, “I shouldn’t be letting you see this! You could go blind.”
Arthur squawked and pushed Eames’ hand out of the way. “I’ve seen tits before! I’ve seen sex before!” he defended vehemently, his face flushed.
Settling his arm on the back of the couch behind Arthur, Eames gave a wry smile. “Pardon me for forgetting.”
And there it was, the reminder of that life-changing night where Arthur had come home early from school… He frowned, pulling his legs up onto the couch, knees to his chest, socked toes digging into the soft suede of the couch. It was silent between them again, as the movie went on. Arthur didn’t even know what was going on anymore—some serial killer was being confronted in a burning building, there was gunfire, who even cared?
Arthur cleared his throat. “Thanks for coming to dinner.”
Eames shrugged. “Would’a been lonely over here if I hadn’t. Luck you, eh?” he quipped with a sidelong look.
Arthur didn’t know what to say to that. He was 13, his voice was still cracking, he hadn’t seen his father in months, and if he was to be honest with himself, he was very, very lonely. Girls didn’t interest him, and all the boys at school would probably smash his face in if he made any sort of advance at them, and the only person he could really talk to now had a boyfriend and couldn’t spare Arthur any of her time. The heartache he felt when Eames was near was that of young love at its finest: deep in his soul, an ache that he felt in his bones, smarting every time Eames said his name, rolled that “r” off of his tongue in a purr that licked up Arthur’s spine and stole his breath his away.
Even sitting this close to the man, Arthur’s mouth burned with the need to say something, to ask if Eames felt the same way, to confess, to drop some sort of hint. It was an arduous task to just sit there instead of pulling that hand so near his shoulder down to where it had been, over his mouth, those big fingers on his lips, the smell of the food they’d eaten and the natural oils from Eames’ skin mingling to make a scent that Arthur wanted to smell so close to him again…
Arthur hated himself. He was sitting on a couch waxing poetic about sniffing his crush’s fingers, like some disgusting pervert. His hand went up to his face and he scrubbed at his cheek, his eyes, clenching his jaw, doing his best to change his line of thought. Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic….
“Tired?” Eames asked, breaking Arthur from his reverie. He looked almost sympathetic.
“No, not at all!” Arthur half-lied, because damn he was tired, but there was no way he’d admit it. If he admitted it, Eames might go home, and this was just so perfect that-
“Arthur, you still up?” a woman’s voice called from the front door.
His mother was home. The bottom dropped out of Arthur’s stomach.
Just a few more hours… Why couldn’t she have stayed out just a few more hours?
Eames got up off the couch and stretched, greeting Mrs. Wright at the door with a kiss to the cheek. They spoke for a few minutes, Eames asking how the daughter was, if they’d gotten her finger sewed back on properly, if Mrs. Wright had eaten, and she’d in turn asked if the meal had turned out okay, had Arthur behaved properly, thanks for watching her kid while she was out.
Arthur didn’t listen. He just stared hard at the TV, the credits rolling, his mouth a hard line.
It was time for Eames to leave. The man was saying his goodbye, waving at Arthur, a kind smile on his face. “Thanks for the lovely evening Pet, don’t stay up too late!” he’d chided with one of his treacherous winks, and Arthur blushed hard in return, watching as the man he suffered for left, the sound of the screen door clacking shut and then off he went, running up the stairs to his room.
He could hear his mother calling for him.
“I’m going to bed, I’m tired!” he called back, stripping quickly out of his clothes. He rant to his window, pushing the curtain aside, licking his lips as he watched Eames stroll towards the porch of Ariadne’s house, and then at the bottom of the steps, Eames stopped, and looked up to Arthur’s bedroom window. Their eyes met for a moment, and Arthur felt hot all over, his bare skin prickling under that gaze he couldn’t even see properly from this distance, and fuck if his dick wasn’t already hard in his pants.
Eames gave a lazy salute, and Arthur could feel the smirk from there as he watched Eames enter the house, and then Arthur was going to his bed, his hands shaking terribly, slipping under the covers and panting as if he’d been running. He lay on his belly, his ass in the air, and thought back to the movie, to the woman and the man fucking hastily like rabbits, imagining himself in the woman’s position, Eames under him and running his hands all over Arthur’s body as the boy rode him into next week. Oh how Arthur wanted to feel Eames inside of him, fucking him, touching him!
One hand wrapped around his cock, the other pinching his tit and caressing his neck, moving up to his mouth to slip his fingers in, lick and suck them obscenely, and Arthur could see that grey gaze in his mind, could feel that piercing stare, and he was cumming then, a whimpered cry buried in his pillow as he came all over his sheets.
He had to do something about this. He was going crazy.